


Endure

by GutsKin



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amputation, Blood, Character Death, Cranks (Maze Runner), Eventual Smut, Fluff, Guns, Hurt Newt (Maze Runner), Hurt/Comfort, Knives, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death Experiences, Newt survives, OMC Ragnar AKA Raggy, Plot Twists, Possessive Newt (Maze Runner), Post-The Death Cure, Protective Newt (Maze Runner), Slow Burn, Smut, Survival, The Flare (Maze Runner), Top Newt (Maze Runner), Violence, Weapons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29936205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GutsKin/pseuds/GutsKin
Summary: Newt is not a quitter.But optimism cannot help him survive the flare and a knife imbedded in his chest.Follow Newt as he learns to survive an apocalyptic world after the fall of WCKD. Will he ever make it to the safe haven and back to his family?
Relationships: Newt/OMC, Newt/Original Male Character
Kudos: 5





	1. The Most Painful Thing?

Parents, unskilled in cuisine, putting together an abominable picnic. Eating where the land meets the sea, sand now a filler, side by side with the ham in their sandwich. Desperately scrabbling for fresh water as the salt dries out their mouth from where their sibling pushed them under the waves. They would roll across the floor, basking in the heat of the sun. Falling asleep in their spot on the beach, to wake up buried from the neckdown, their father taking pictures of his art, mementos in the family album. Sneaking away to buy cheap chips from the closest food stall just to avoid their mothers’ sandy refreshments, only for a seagull to swoop down with an almighty war cry and steal the food from their fingertips. Not even the squawking of those impish birds could distract them from the happiness they would feel in that moment. In fact, that squawking to many would be nostalgic. A comfort, a reminder of where they are and what fun they are having. 

Once, this would have been a reality for most people. But not anymore.

In this new world, people would be blessed to find the ocean, to sit with their feet in the sea eating a parent prepared meal. If they were fortunate enough to get a hold of bread, then the sand in their sandwich would be the least of their concerns. Murky water would fill their bottles, scavenged from the last pool they came across. Basking in the sun became a thing of the past since the scorch. Balaclavas protecting faces from blistering burns. Sweating through their clothes but too afraid to strip, the heat a knife across their skin. Sleeping in the open became much too dangerous, even with someone standing watch. Mementos were lost to evacuations as people scrabbled to survive. Food stalls would have been a reprieve for those scavenging for anything to eat. And If a seagull swooped down to eat their cold beans, it would find itself with a bullet through its chest and roasting over an open fire. If only the squawking did not send pure panic through the hearts of those nearby. Squawking, once a nostalgic sound, now a sign of impending doom. After all, the likelihood of a bird being anywhere nearby on this godforsaken planet is close to zero percent. There is only one other creature that screeches so inhumanly left, the cranks. Ironic considering, they used to be human themselves. The cranks, once brothers, aunts, cousins, and spouses, now only an omen of death. It is easy to fear the unknown. But it is an entirely different fear when the source outnumbers your race by three hundred percent. It is an entirely different fear, when you could become the monster that you spend your life running from. Suddenly, the unknown is no longer quite so scary.

\---

If you were to ask Newt what the topmost painful moments in his life were, he would flounder. How can a man rate his most painful moments when he has had so few good ones? The list would simply never end.

Losing his memory and being thrown in a maze with no escape, made it into the top five. However, the family he found under these circumstances is something he would never regret.

Escaping said maze, only to lose friend after friend. To the grievers, to the scorch, to WCKD, to each other. Jeff, Chuck, Winston. He wished they were the only names on that list.

Finding safety, to be betrayed by one he thought of as his own. Minho, his perfectly sarcastic best friend Minho, being dragged unconscious back into WCKD’s clutches. 

But no matter what happens in his short life, the top spot would always go to the mental anguish the maze put him through. Which subsequently led to his attempted suicide and physical scar in the form of a limp. Every step, a reminder of the ivy under his hands as he climbed. Every sharp sting, a reminder of the angle his leg sat after landing on it. Every time his ankle buckled, a reminder that the one thing he cherished about himself, he nearly lost. Newt was not a quitter and, he could never thank the stars enough for his failure. 

The pain he was in right now would be a close second on that list. The all-encasing anger which coursed through his veins as he screamed at himself to stop. Unable to control his own body, slashing this rusty knife at Tommy, his Tommy. It was painful enough that he had already nicked his friend with the blade, but now he was aiming to kill. The misery in his mind dulled the pain in his arm, his chest, the right side of his face where the virus creeped.

Newt was not a quitter, but he would not sit idly by as a virus turned him from himself. So, for the first time since he acquired his limp, he begged for death. He begged for Tommy to kill him, he wished to die as himself. Newt was a man who prided himself on his optimism. Never giving up had become an important part of his personality for the three years he remembered. WCKD called him the glue, they were right, about this at least. He held his family together, so they could make it to the haven and live the life they needed. The life they deserved. He was not a quitter and he never gave up, until he did.

Suddenly, he was no longer slashing, no longer moving. The knife buried deep in his chest; he is certain he stabbed himself in a moment of clarity. But as he fell to the ground, the look in Tommy’s eyes told him, his friend would blame himself for the rest of his life. He wished he could provide the comfort his friend so desperately needed.

With one last cough, black sludge expelling itself from his lungs, an ache spreading through his chest, his eyes slid shut, too heavy to keep open. Cries echoed around him, but he could not move a muscle, in the haze of his virus infested mind he was unable to care for their sadness.

Although he wished he were dead, clarity from the flare traipsed through him, he heaved his eyes open one last time to see legs walking from his cooling body. The pain was indescribable, and in that moment, he would think, maybe this was worse than jumping off the maze walls after all.

\---

He was most certainly dead, he had to be, so why was he still in pain? Why did he ache so fiercely? Had he, in his life before the maze, sinned so heinously that he is being eternally condemned? His mind was his own which was a good sign. But perhaps that was the joke, suffer turning into a crank just to end up in hell with his mind intact. That way he would never escape the grief. 

The last time he opened his eyes, his family had their backs to him. If he opened his eyes this time what would he find? Fire? He wanted to keep his eyes closed, but the pitter patter of footsteps forced them open beyond his will.

Whatever he was seeing was bright, and most definitely blurry. Twins approached him, one of them was transparent. Is that possible? He questioned the sanity of his brain. 

Darkness crept back up through his mind, the last thing he saw before crashing once more, was a crouched figure and a moving lip.

“ -ay with me, It’ll b- ,“ with no idea what was being said, Newt slipped away.

\---

Screaming echoes through his ears, terrible wails of pain. His body jumped slightly, and aches flashed through his bones and the noise got louder. Maybe he was the one screaming after all.

He closed his mouth to stifle his howls, the noise making his throbbing head much worse than it needed to be. Small groans escaping only when he was knocked around too much.

In that moment he realized he was moving. Opening his eyes made it no easier to see, everything was dim and blurred. Flashes of colour, lots of red. But why was he moving?

Something tickling at his cheek turned his attention to his left. His face met a hard chest, was that hair dangling? Long white tresses fell, annoyingly tickling his nose. With an agonizing sneeze bumping his entire body, he wailed, and a concerned murmur sounded above him. Eyes rolling back, he found himself unconscious again. In the arms of a stranger and against his own wishes.

\---

The next time Newt awoke, it was to the sound of his own wheezing. The coughing dreadful to his ears. Something warm trickling out of his mouth and down his lips.

A dull ache in the center of his chest was nothing compared to the flames licking his arm and up his face. The flare if he had to guess. With the smallest of jostles, pain travelled every nerve of the upper right section of his body. And in the end, he succumbed to his exhaustion, tense shoulders relaxed into the comfiest bedding he had slept on. Not the ground and not a hammock.

A rusty metallic squeak sounded to the right; a door most likely. 

Just as he went to hide in fake sleep, an awful cough ripped through his chest and out his throat, bringing along that all familiar sludge with it.

A face appeared in front of Newt, a rough, callus hand lifting him by the neck and water suddenly flooding down his throat. He had not realized how blurry everything was until that moment. But nothing could distract from blue smacking him in the face. Not that he had seen many blue eyes, but these were by far the brightest. 

The harsh incline of his body to drink the water suddenly caught up to him and as his head hit the furs once again the pain pulled him under. The last thoughts which passed through his mind was about how much brightness this person exuded, so much white. 

Was this his guardian angel?


	2. What Kind of Name is That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt meets his saviour.  
> They hit it off right away.
> 
> Warning: Gory descriptions and mentions of amputation

Whether it be the rustling leaves in the wind or the soft buzzing in his ears, Newt had never known what true silence meant. Although, silence was supposedly a calming concept, noise had never once caused him distress. Noise was to him, a gentle reminder of the path he was walking, an indication of where he was and how he got there. Noise was home.

Newt missed the glade; it was never a quiet place. The chip chopping of wood, the hum of conversation, the evening rumble of closing doors, soft snores lulling him to sleep. Laughing his way through a day in the fields, picking pees with his fellow track-hoes. It was a peaceful time, the knowledge that the glade was a prison cell never dampened the mood. Especially not now, not after living through the scorch. Not after losing brother after brother. How he longed to hear the wind chimes singing in the breeze and Gally wrestling another shank challenger once more. He missed the glade and all the noise it brought.

Laying back in his fur cot, he struggled to focus. He held no appreciation for the skillful application of bandages, hugging him just right to aid recovery and causing no unnecessary pain. Or the softness under his bare back, tickling his neck. Even the sharp stinging sensation webbing its way up his right arm could not distract from the panic in his mind. Once noise comforted him, now his labored breathing seemed too loud. The low buzz of the lantern which threw light across the room seemed too agitating. Distant crumbling of buildings and distressed screams of cranks as they found themselves crushed seemed too sad. Once noise comforted him, now it panicked him. He could not hear a thing, not even his own thoughts over the steady stream of noise. He missed the glade and all the peaceful commotion it brought. But in this moment, he would rather rip off his own ears than listen to anything ever again.

Maybe it was his panic induced mind trying to escape the droning or maybe he is simply going insane from pain. But suddenly, he sat on the roof. With no idea how he got there, no sign of stairs to climb. Not that it matters, how the hell he got out of bed, let alone to the roof with the state his body was in is as much a mystery to him as anyone. The pulsing ache which was not there before and the bloodied bandages around his chest acted as the puzzle pieces to the story. He had clearly pulled himself up here somehow, straining his body and ripping his stitches whilst doing so. He hoped whoever helped him, whoever wasted their resources to sew him back together did not get angry.

The breeze brushed through his hair and danced across his face. In that moment, he would thank whatever drove him to the roof. The steady calm of wind making him shiver acted as a medium to his racing thoughts. Much better than ripping off his own ears, yes much better indeed. It is funny what fresh air can do for a person, the crashing buildings and the cranks caterwauls sounded so much quieter now.

A small smile crept up on Newt. He was alive, he made it. His brothers think he is dead, but he is not, he can find them once more. They always find their way back to each other; this will be no different. He let his mind wander, flittering through memories of the trials they had suffered. Losing Winston to the virus, that could have been him too. Kidnapping Teresa, that scum, who is probably cozying up with Tommy right now. Pretending she did not betray us, pretending she is not the reason Minho nearly died. 

His aggressive thoughts distracted him from the shuffling edging closer. Feet dragging themselves along the floor slowly but surely. It was not until his hair raised in warning and scorching breath hit his neck that he spun around. At first, he expected white locks to clap him once more in the eyes. He wished for that hair, but he would not be so lucky.

Puffs hit his face; plagued breaths invaded his nostrils. Bile collected in his throat. Black veins, like spider webs mapped its skin, sections darkening as sludge made its way through its body. The goo dribbled from its mouth in a constant stream, leaving a warm patch of the dark liquid on his leg. The jaw was unhinged, clearly after taking extensive damage, its mouth would never shut again. Eyes which long ago lost their humanity, now blackened, cursed by the virus. Growths had sprouted from the side of its face and up its head, no doubt where hair used to be. The fingers gripping his shoulder bend at odd angles, none of them straight. Bloody fingertips, an indicator of the crimes those hands had committed. The crank, stood shirtless, a woman after inspection, gaping hole in her stomach. The blackened organs wriggled, and by the laws of physics should no longer be inside her body. One leg snapped in half and bent at a 45-degree angle.

As she lunged a shriek fell from her grewsome lips. Newt flailed backwards to escape. And escape he did. Tumbling off the roof arms flapping in an amusing display of attempted flight. The ground got closer with every passing second. He squeezed his eyes shut.

‘I don’t want to die, not again, not like this’.

As he hit the ground he woke up.

\---

Sitting up straight, the feeling of falling still haunted his body. He breathed erratically, as blood rushed to his ears. Panic held him in a vice as he jumped around, looking for the crank woman once again.

Faint murmurs reached his mind, but nothing soaked in.

“-reful, … rip … -itches,“ What is that noise, is it a voice?

Sucking in careful breaths, the tension ebbed from his frame and he collapsed back in an undignified heap. The darkened edges of his vision eased away, and he could finally take stock of what was around him. The most obvious thing being the man hovering, fingers poking at the bandages wrapped around his chest looking for any sign of damage.

White hair, Newt was not hallucinating after all. He had never met someone with white hair before. It was odd learning there was so much more to the world, to people, outside of the maze.

The man was decked head to toe in black. His walking boots traipsed half the world’s dirt with them, and was that blood splatters? Form fitting cargo pants with more pockets than Newt cared to count. A large charcoal coat, with a hood, pulled down and almost as many pockets as the trousers he wore. Who needs that many pockets? Looking harder answered his own question. If the bulging of every cavity indicted anything, it was that this man needed that many compartments. For what, Newt was unsure. A tattered scarf wrapped loosely around his neck; hair tucked in. A few strands escaping their prison messily. Possibly in his haste to see to newt after that spectacular wake up call. By gosh his hair is long. How one could survive with hair that length is a riddle.

The fussing around his chest stopped, Newt tore his eyes from the boots. Definitely the bluest eyes he has ever seen. Face rounded with sharp cheekbones and slight stubble, a man, there was no question about it. And although, his eyes were set cold and spoke stories of horror there was something soft in his demeanor. 

The man sat, lips quirked, eyebrow raised in amusement. Scar tissue covered half his left cheek, dipped over the corner of his lip, and escaped under the scarf he wore. That was a burn scar if Newt had ever seen one, and he had, the first time Frypan was let in the kitchen and took down the whole building with him.

“You alright blondie?” a raspy sound but not harsh, just an indication that he had not spoken much in a long time. “You look like you been seeing ghosts kid,” The amused upturn to his brow creasing into an uneasy frown. He was rather expressive considering the storms in his eyes.

“Bloody perfect, thanks, and I’m eighteen not a kid,” Newt snapped, peepers squinted at the man as if he were an enigma. Which he was to some extent.

“I ain’t heard an Englishman speak for quite some time, do it again!” In that moment he would look more childlike than Newt could ever pull off, excitement gleaming in his eyes. The strangers next words would contradict his attitude, “Eighteen you say mm? Potato potata, still a kid to me!”

“An Englishman? I have never heard of that before,” Possibly a question about his accent, he always knew he spoke strangely compared to the others. “Well, how old are you then? I refuse to believe you’re over twenty.” 

“You tellin’ me you aint knowing about where you come from? I can’t be believing that” Amusement again. His mood changes like the direction of the wind. Newt was suffering whiplash. He could not tell though, if it was from the mood swings or trying to keep up with two conversations at once. “A man don’t kiss and tell his age” teasing, Newt was certain. He was extremely easy to read. An unspoken staring contest took place. Dragging on in an awkward silence until the stranger looked away muttering under his breath.

“What?” Newt smirked. He had won that for sure, Newt 1, stranger 0.

“25,” Stranger was smiling now, lips pulled to his ears in an easy grin. “Been a while since people be beating me at the eye staring, you’re fascinating for sure kid. The names Raggy” And if Newts cheeks puffed out in suppressed laughter, neither of them said anything about it.

“What sort of name is Raggy?” Now it was his turn to be amused. At least he had a name for his savior. Although ‘stranger’ was starting to stick. “Newt,” As polite as Newt had attempted to be, suppressing his laugh, Raggy seemed to have no qualms about snorting loudly and guffawing. 

“And you been making fun of my name? I aint thinking you have the right with a name like that kid!” This time they both choked on laughter. Newt holding his chest in pain but unable to stop his wheezing giggles. Raggy holding his shoulders, trying to keep him steady but only doing more damage as his own frame shook. They soon calmed down, breathing heavily. “Newt suits you I think, my name really being Ragnar, dunno what my mother was thinking truly, I aint no Ragnar. She probably be hoping for a strong hulking boy or something,” 

“Raggy it is, Ragnar is ginger for sure,” The belly laughs which erupted from the man opposite him made the stupid joke worth it. “If it makes you feel any better, the names Newton,” The poor bastard who had not yet recovered from his last bout of laughing, keeled over Newts legs wheezing and red faced. It was a sight and Newt could not stop the smile pulling at his cheeks.

“Newt and Raggy it is then, we both been saddled with awful names for sure,” Newt was certain he had never quite gotten along with somebody so quickly. If he had to have been save by anyone, he was glad it was Raggy.

He could not help but think of Minho’s sarcasm in the stretching silence, and although that thought should have saddened him, it brought him nothing but comfort. Minho had to be alive, he refused to accept any other outcome. If Minho met Raggy they would never stop bickering that is for sure. Newt knew then that he would do anything to get back to his family, especially with this man in tow.

“Hey kid, you should be sleeping now, those wounds aint be healing if you laugh them stitches open,” A small smile graced his lips. Newt had not noticed the older man get up and move across the room. Rummaging through a box before coming back, handing him a small pill and cup of water. No question had to be asked which was a relief, “antibiotics,” It is clear Ragnar knew all about suspicion.

Taking the pill and downing the small amount of water, shuffling slowly trying to lay back down. The grimace of pain spirited Rags into action, lowering the younger man down. It bit of a struggle considering the 6 inches Newt had on Raggy. His head touched the furs and he shut his eyes instantly, exhaustion hitting him. Just before slipping into Morpheus’ arms, the creak of a door and a muttered, “Sleep well giant Pond Dweller,” sounded. The smirk could be heard from across the room. Ever the comedian.

Game on, a soft “good day, Dirty Cloth,” was sighed out as blackness took over.

\---

Tapping on his left arm brought Newt from his slumber. Eyes opening to see a frown of concentration nestled between his newest companions’ brows. Fingers smoothing over his healthy arm, the callus’ causing a tickling sensation. His hand moved, brushing over his diseased arm. The sensations stopped. 

“What are you doing Dish Rag?” That caused a shock, the man had clearly been in a world of his own, not noticing when Newt awoke. He was almost sad to see the look of concentration leave the older mans face. He wished the frown had left too though. 

“Ah, you been awake Frog Hybrid? Sorry if I woke you,” Newt brushed off his apology, “Your bad arm, you feeling me touch it?” Eyes wide, hopeful almost. Clearly hoping for a good answer, Newt could not give him one though.

“Not at all,” Ragnar heaved a sigh but did not seem surprised. 

He hummed, brow furrowing further. “This concerns me,” He licked his lips. Taking Newt’s arm in his hands, turning it, tracing over the bulging black veins, inspecting. “I aint no doctor, but I been feeling like you aint using this arm ever again,” Nothing could have prepared Newt for that.

“Perfect,” His voice cracked, tears threatening to fall. He had never considered the damage his body took; he only celebrated his survival. It would be shallow to consider losing an arm the end of the world. But he could not help but think, that in a world full of cranks and survival of the fittest, perhaps losing an arm really was a one-way ticket to a grave.

“You could amputa- “In his panic he interrupted the older man. 

“Not happening.” He was aware of how stupid the words were the second he muttered them. Raggy did not seem to mind though.

“Hear me out Water Lizard, I been seein men taken down by cranks ‘cause of bad limbs and that. I been building my fair share of prostetics over the years. Could get you fitted knives and that. Make it a weapon,” Ragnar simply confirmed his suspicions. Sympathy shining in his eyes.

“I’ll think about it,” and he meant it.

“Good that, but I aint no doctor, we be waiting a few months and it might be okay” he smiled slightly, it never reached his eyes though. It was clear enough to Newt that this man had seen his fair share of injuries, enough to know his arm would not be waking up ever again. 

Silence fell between them, Ragnar moving to sip at some water. Nothing else on the topic needed to be said, they both understood that. 

The rattling of a tin being opened drew Newt’s attention to Raggy. He soon found a tin of peaches resting in his lap and a fork in his good hand. Telling him twice would have been a waste of breath. Before the second tin had been opened Newt had finished half of his own food. 

“Hey Raggy?” The man was extremely attentive. Ragnar fully focused on Newt before the younger had finished saying his name, a small hum urging Newt to keep talking, “Why do you speak so… oddly? You seem quite intelligent” Newt nearly slapped himself, he had known this man a day and already insulted him.

“I aint be intelligent youngin’, I aint of those fancy folks. I aint been to school even before the world went to pot. But this world, I am good at it, I been livin it since I was just a sprout, I seen things and I learn to survive it. You be learning too, I’ll be making sure of that,” Just like that the conversation was over, no offence taken.

Raggy’s content humming filtered through the room for the rest of the day. Only pausing to focus on changing Newt’s bandages and making sure he took his medicine. And if that humming carried on for days, lulling Newt in and out of sleep as he healed, then neither of them had something bad to say about it.


End file.
